


(No Help) From My Friends

by Moorishflower



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-14
Updated: 2010-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:10:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it gets to the point where you're having God-sent visions of your not-so-fictional characters having sex, that's when the tequila stops being useful and just starts making things worse. Chuck learns this the hard way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(No Help) From My Friends

  
So, Sam is huge. That's never been called into question. Sam is a giant and he makes even his brother (who's no slouch) look like a tiny person, and they're both so freaking tall that, next to each other, they look normal, but next to an _actual_ normal-sized person (or vessel, in this case) like Castiel, they look like Gulliver probably looked to the Lilliputians, huge and insurmountable and _fucking frightening_. And you would think that the effect wouldn't be situational - that even if they were covered in mud or monster drool or _lime jello_, the Winchesters, and especially Sam, would still have that aura of...of badass-ness. Like it's something that shines out from under their skin.

Except that isn't the case. Because, unclothed, Sam looks...normal. He looks like any other tall dude spread out naked on a motel bed, arms and limbs splayed, sheets tangled around the weirdly delicate arches of his feet. The skin of his arms and chest and shoulders is a sweet, golden color, almost textured, like suede. He could be a pin-up poster, if it weren't for the shirtless angel kneeling between his spread legs, holding his canted hips up with one hand while another trails down and back, disappearing into the shadow of Sam's body and the bedsheets.

"Dean'll be back soon," Sam says, and his voice slicks away on a moan as Castiel's fingers nudge forward. The angel shifts, and Sam tries to follow the movement with his hips - it leaves him spread open, displayed. Sam Winchester is intimidating, yes, but he's also all scrubbed-pink skin and the shine of lube where Castiel's fingers vanish into him, one and then two and then _three_.

"I am not what I once was," Castiel says softly, "but even I can manage something as rudimentary as locking the door."

"Smartass," Sam sighs, his breath hitching on a moan as Castiel spreads his fingers apart. "Fuck. _Yes_. I'm ready, Cas, _do it_."

"You were worried about Dean," Castiel says. There's a tone to his voice, almost _teasing_, and that's...yeah, that's way unusual. And when Sam sort of growls, and curls one huge hand around the back of his neck and _yanks_ him down, there's almost something like a smile hovering around Castiel's lips.

"Fuck me," Sam says, lips pursed around the words, and Chuck wakes up.

He has a fleeting moment of _damnit, just when it was getting good_, and then he glances down at his lap. The headache of a minor vision like this isn't anywhere near enough to kill his boner.

"Fuck you," he says to his dick, and is honestly _surprised_ when it doesn't answer him - that's how weird his life has gotten. He tosses the blanket off the couch, then gingerly stands and hobbles his way to the bathroom.

"There will be no gay sex fantasies in the showers," Chuck says to himself (and his genitals) in the bathroom mirror. "We did the whole experimenting thing in college, and also, I don't want to be _smited_ for jerking off to an angel and...and whatever Sam is, _fucking_."

He glares at his reflection, and then sighs, and turns the shower to 'cold.'

~

"You _fucker_."

Chuck has a brief space of time where he comforts himself with the fact that at least this is a regular dream, not a crazy angel-maybe-God-sanctioned sex dream about the characters in his books (except they aren't characters, not really). And then he realizes that he is having a dream where he is sitting at his kitchen table, across from a giant, anthropomorphized penis.

"Um," Chuck says, and, conveniently, there's a bottle of Cuervo and a conga line of shot glasses in front of him, so he focuses on that instead of, you know, _giant cocks_.

"You're seriously going to ignore me," the penis says. Chuck doesn't look at it. He doesn't want to know why it's talking, but, even more, he doesn't want to know _how_. "After everything we've been through together. I let you convince me to bang _Cecily Murphy,_ dude. I was scared I was gonna get the clap."

"Oh God," Chuck says. Because he remembers Cecily Murphy. And he remembers waiting in the front room at the clinic, hands clasped defensively over his crotch, like everyone in there had had x-ray vision and had been able to see his shame. "You couldn't just be some random dick, could you?"

"When is anything ever _random_," the penis - _Chuck's junk_ \- says. It sounds philosophical. "Like, I don't think God would let you see your hot pseudo-characters fucking if he didn't want you to write it down somewhere. And, you know, if you happen to write it down in your spank journal, who's gonna care? Not like anyone's ever going to find it. That lockbox is pretty tough, dude."

Chuck slams down three shots in rapid succession. Maybe if he gets drunk fast enough, he'll be able to wake up.


End file.
